


Unromantic

by 221b_hound



Series: Unkissed [30]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Love, M/M, Romance, everything is difficult when you can't use your hands, including using the loo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 11:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3288881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's easy enough for Sherlock to give a debrief to John when they're at the hosptial, but at home, John's hand injuries are making everything difficult. And embarrassing. And it sure takes the romance out of your relationship when you need help to go to the loo. But there's romance, and then there's love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unromantic

**Author's Note:**

> If you get squicked by bodily functions, this might be a bit awkward for you.

John sat propped up on the hospital bed, looking grumpy and in pain in turns. With Sherlock’s help, he’d managed to mostly dress again, in his bloodstained jeans and shirt, though he was without jacket or shoes. Both of those were bloodstained too.

Sherlock sat beside him and, unable to hold either of John’s hands for the time being, he left his hand resting on John’s thigh, over the blankets, and periodically patted him.

“Is your back all right?” John asked again, in one of the grumpy phases, “And your neck?” His speech was only slightly impaired by his cut lip.

“I’m all right,” Sherlock reassured him.

John peered at him and Sherlock did not have to feign guilelessness. Hi neck ached of course, and the bruise would be spectacular when it finished coming out, but the crowbar blow he’d taken to protect John’s skull was not the worst or most debilitating injury he’d ever had. Though he thought it best not to point that out right now.

“Well, I’m splinted and bandaged,” John waved his heavily bandaged hands in demonstration, “So we can go.”

“As soon as we have the final blood tests,” said Sherlock, who was never too persnickety about his own blood tests when he was in hospital, but had become unbelievably stubborn when it came to John’s health this visit. The cut on John’s eyebrow was not responsible for a concussion, but the doctor wanted to be certain that there were no residual effects from the sedative that had been used.

“Fuck, I hate hospitals,” grumped John.

“A singular handicap in your profession,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Git.”

Sherlock patted John’s thigh. John sighed. “Sorry, kitten.” He heaved another sigh and gave Sherlock a sorrowful look. The bags under John’s eyes were dark. He looked exhausted. And then John grinned in sudden memory. “Tell me again about how that fuckmuppet shrieked all the way down to the ambulance about how I’d kicked his balls in two.”

“Christ, Watson, that shouldn’t be the memory that cheers you up,” observed Greg Lestrade from the door to their room.

John cocked an eyebrow at him. “Tell me that again after the dickwad in question has broken two of _your_ fingers and tried to nick your wedding ring.”

Greg shrugged, noting it as a fair call. “Are you two going to tell me what this was all about?”

“No,” said John and Sherlock in unison.

“You know we have to have something for the report.”

“Hey, we were just going about our business, as usual,” offered John, “When these pricks snatched me off the street. They can tell you which particular case put a firecracker up their arses. Fucked if I know. They were just trying to find Sherlock, and I was just refusing to co-operate.”

“You’re aware none of them are talking, right?”

“I don’t see how that’s my fault,” said John, “I’m the victim here.” He waved his bandaged hands again for emphasis. Sherlock patted his thigh again. Greg stared at John’s bandaged hands. Then he muttered an oath and straightened up.

“Sorry. Yeah. Forget me. Look after yourself.” He nodded at Sherlock. “Tell me if you need anything, yeah?”

Sherlock had no intention of dragging Greg into the whole horrible business, but he nodded acknowledgement .

Greg nodded back and departed.

Sherlock rose to close the door and then returned to John’s side. He sat precisely where he had been and placed his hand back on John’s thigh.

John sighed. “Safe enough here for a debrief?”

Sherlock patted John’s leg again. “There’s no sign of the documents at Appledore, but we’ve found something else.”

“We? This is that ally you were talking about. The cook, Aggie Raczek?”

“Yes. She took a little convincing, and I had to disarm her with a ladle…”

“I look forward to an elaboration on that when we’ve time.”

“The main thing to remember is that Agnieszka Raczek is not a cook, although it’s one of her skills. Aggie is in fact a former covert operations agent, though with which service is unclear. She may have been ours, or with the United States, or a KGB agent, possibly Mossad, or a double agent. She will certainly be a wanted woman by one or more of those agencies, or by any number of other people upon whom she has committed real or perceived wrongs. One word from Milverton in the right ear, I expect, and she would be dead within the week.”

“Sounds like a charmer.”

“I quite like her, actually,” Sherlock admitted. At John’s expression he added, a little defensively, “She bakes excellent bread.” Then he patted John’s thigh again. “She has tried to poison Milverton at least once, but as he forces her to taste test all his food for poisons, and enforced her return after falling sick at least three times, that is not something she has been able to repeat.”

“She should build up an immunity to iocane powder,”muttered John.

Sherlock’s brow creased in a puzzled frown. “There is no such thing as iocane powder.”

“No, sorry, you’re right, it’s the painkillers talking. So she can’t just dispatch him without finding whatever proof he’s holding on her?”

“No. And there’s the added incentive that should she move against him – whether or not she fails or dies in the attempt – Milverton has similar dangerous material on his PA, Janine Nevin, who is also Raczek’s girlfriend.”

“This is getting complicated.”

“Byzantine is the word you’re looking for. I’ve not been able to find out much about Nevin, so I suspect she’s changed her name. She’s Irish, so perhaps it’s an IRA link.”

“Great. So we have spies and terrorists to save. Why did you need her help again?”

“She’s an expert in surveillance systems, and thus has been able to keep our explorations from the last few days absent from Milverton’s records.”

“Handy.”

“Indeed. Unfortunately, as I had suspected and Raczek had already confirmed, there are no hidden chambers in the mansion where Milverton houses the evidence he uses against his victims.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Not quite. There was a very small chamber, purpose built in the centre of the house, leading off his study. It contains only a large leather armchair which, it turns out, conceals a rather unexpected trapdoor.”

“I take it that the trapdoor doesn’t lead to a secret underground lair?”

“Something of the kind, actually.” Sherlock managed a mild smirk, and patted John’s leg again, “It opens to a modern staircase, which leads down to stairs cut from the bedrock stone, which in turn lead to a tunnel and from there, the stone tunnel winds several hundred metres until it emerges under a rocky ledge facing the sea.” At John’s perplexed expression, Sherlock’s smile widened. “Milverton’s mansion was built over a very old escape route. The house isn’t old enough for the tunnel to relate to the civil war. It may be a folly, or perhaps linked to smuggling.”

John’s perky grin was lovely, and lifted the tiredness from his face, if not the bruising from the blows he’d received. “I bet you loved finding that.”

“It was gratifying,” Sherlock conceded, “Though I would have been more gratified if the tunnel at any point had led to a chamber where he kept the documents. I assume its purpose is to allow the grubby turncoats he deals with to discreetly arrive with their blackmail material for sale.”

“He must keep the papers somewhere else, then.”

“No, that makes no sense. A man of Milverton’s psychology will certainly want to keep such information close. He would like to gloat over it, the way he does over keeping Raczek close. He likes the feeling of power he has, and he would want the evidence of that power within reach at all times.

John sighed in exasperation. Sherlock’s hand stroked his leg soothingly this time.

“I still have one or two ideas, but I didn’t have the opportunity to test them today. Mycroft sent me the message regarding your abduction and of course I came for you immediately.”

Sherlock stroked John’s thigh once more, and flexed his fingers, then made his hand lie flat and still on the weave of the blanket.

“So we need to return to Appledore. You with me, if you’re able.”

“I’m able,” John promised in a voice of grit and determination, “Left hand’s buggered for a while, but I can numb the burns on the other enough to handle my gun. I shoot better with the right anyway.”

“Ambidexterity. One of your many fine traits.” Sherlock smiled at him. Patted his thigh.

“When do we go in?”

“We have a little time. Tomorrow’s Sunday and the landscapers are not expected to work. Milverton returns from his business trip on Monday, however, so tomorrow evening will be our best chance. You’ll have had time to recover to a degree, and Raczek is on notice for our return in the afternoon.”

_Pat. Pat. Pat._

“Sherlock.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m okay.”

“I know you are.” Sherlock turned to look into his husband’s eyes. John’s eyes were still bruised with pain, but they were luminous, too, with softer emotion.

“Can I have a kiss, honeybumble?”

“Your lip is…”

“Ah…” John had forgotten, or hadn’t cared, and was a little disappointed, and of course Sherlock saw all of these things, so he lifted his hand from the blanket to cup John’s bruised face. He leaned close and breathed, soft and warm, over John’s injured skin, then pressed his lips, feather-light, against the corner of John’s mouth.

John sighed in contentment and leaned slightly into the pressure. Sherlock kissed him again, then ghosted his nose over John’s cheek, over John’s nose and his wounded brow. His lips puckered just above the surface, not quite touching, and he breathed against John’s hairline, and nuzzled ever-so-softly into John’s hair.

“I’m all right,” John said again.

Sherlock didn’t reply. Couldn’t. He kissed John’s hair, then his temple, then the door opened and he reluctantly returned to his seat.

It was John’s doctor, giving them to all clear to go home if they wanted to.

They wanted, and after Sherlock had helped John into his shoes and jacket, they left.

*

At Baker Street, Sherlock helped John to disrobe because between the finger splints, the bandages over the burns and wooziness from the painkillers, John couldn’t use his hands. John couldn’t manage buttons, zips, shoelaces or getting his jacket and shirt off.

John submitted to a simple sponge bath – a few wipes of a warm, soapy facecloth over his face, chest and stomach – until he felt a fraction more human, and then he got grumpy because he needed help to get into his pyjamas.

John said he wasn’t hungry, but his rumbling stomach indicated otherwise, so Sherlock made a late supper from leftovers warmed in the microwave. John couldn’t use a knife and fork, either, so Sherlock chopped up the noodles and helped John prop a spoon in his right hand, which was marginally more useful than the left. Some spoonfuls ended up on the table, and John’s grumpiness returned, but Sherlock simply ignored the spills till they were done, then wiped it all away.

Sherlock then made tea, but John couldn’t hold the cup.

This also made John cranky. Then John became repentant. “Sorry, sweetpea. I hate…”

“You hate being sick and injured, yes, I know. I hate it too, if that’s any consolation.”

“I’m sorry I’m so…”

“Not because of you, John,” Sherlock riposted, somewhat crankily himself, “I hate that they _hurt_ you. I should have found you sooner. I should never have…”

“No, sweetheart. No. This is not your fault.” John crowded up against Sherlock, who stood in the kitchen clenching his hands, and bumped up against his chest and neck, like a cat seeking attention. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock but couldn’t do much with his wrapped hands. “Might as well be my fault for not being faster.”

“You were against five of them John. You took out three of them. A fourth at the warehouse. You were…” Sherlock’s protest was vehement.

“I was fucking brilliant,” John said, with a laugh, “And so were you, and Donovan wasn’t too shabby either.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and held him gingerly, gently, and nuzzled against his hair.

“Let me help you with the tea,” he said.

They sat on the sofa together, John’s back snugged against Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock held the cup, tilted it a little while John took small sips. John hissed as the hot water stung his lip, so Sherlock altered the angle of the cup to avoid a repeat.

The trouble really only came ten minutes after Sherlock had helped John into bed and drawn the bedding up over him, kissed him on the forehead and slid carefully in beside him for the night.

Sherlock reached out to carefully lay a hand against John’s hip and he breathed deeply.

_John is all right. The injuries are minor, certainly compared with what might have been. His courage was… he was… he…_

Sherlock breathed deeply, exhaled slowly, moved his fingers on John’s hip.

_I must find a suitable way to thank Sally._

_I will make Milverton pay for this_.

Sherlock moved his head slightly on his pillow so he could see John. John had his eyes closed and his sore mouth was, as far as physically possible, a flat line of irritation.

_My husband is…_

Words like _superb_ and _magnificent_ and _extraordinary_ darted through his mind, but none seemed to encapsulate the pride and grief that were wound so tightly together.

_He is **safe**. He is strong and clever and fearless and steadfast and **here** , he is **here** , he will be well, he is hurt but he **will** be well soon, and if anyone dares harm him ever again I will cut out their hearts…_

“Fuck it,” John snarled, and began to shove bedding out of the way with his forearms and elbows.

“John…”

“I need a piss.”

Sherlock flicked the blankets aside and steadied John so he could sit on the side of the bed.

“ _Fuck it.”_

“John?”

“I… I need. **_Fuck_**.” John shook his head, looking defeated.

“I’ll help…”

“I don’t just need to piss, Sherlock.”

Oh. Well. That explained the foul temper. Fouler temper.

Sherlock got out of bed and walked around to John. “Come on, then.”

“Sherlock, no.”

“John, you can’t use your hands.”

“I can manage.” John rose and tried to pull his pyjama pants, which were sagging about his hips a bit, up, and couldn’t. “ ** _Fuck_**.”

“Stop being stubborn,” said Sherlock, a little fractiousness leaking through his attempt at an even tone, “I’m perfectly capable of assisting you with…”

“It’s not about your _capability_.”

Sherlock sighed and fell silent, and John stomped out of the room. Then he cursed in front of the bathroom because the door was closed and he couldn’t open it easily.

Sherlock appeared behind him, turned the handle, and waited while John stomped into the bathroom. And proceeded to glare at the loo like it was a personal enemy.

Sherlock simply waited, reminding himself that John was in fact smart, and an adult, and also a doctor, and he would come to the logical conclusion eventually.

And eventually John sighed and shuffled up to the toilet and sighed again, shoulders dropping heavily, and closed his eyes.

“Right. I’m ready.”

Sherlock lifted the lid and seat of the toilet then carefully reached into the fly gap of John’s pyjamas. The angle was awkward, so Sherlock, after guiding John’s penis through the gap, murmured “Just a moment” and moved to stand behind him. The procedure felt more natural this way. He put an arm around John’s waist, took his penis in the other hand and with a little manoeuvring, John leaned over slightly and waited.

“Christ. I can’t…”

“Just relax.”

“This is not relaxing, Sherlock. _Fuck_.”

So Sherlock tucked his mouth next to John’s neck (near the bandage covering the burn in his throat, and Sherlock thought he might cry at even the idea of what had been done) and began to make a hissing noise.

“Jesus, Sherlock…”

 _Pssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss_ whispered Sherlock beside his ear. _Sssssssssssssss Ssssssssssssssss Sssssssssssss_

It did the trick. John’s bladder let go and he sighed with relief as he was able to get comfortable at last.

When the stream stopped, Sherlock gave him a shake and tucked him back into his pyjamas.

But there was still the other thing.

“Turn, John.” Sherlock released him and stood back to give him room.

“I really don’t want to do this,” said John, with his back to Sherlock.

“I don’t expect your body is giving you a choice.”

“No, it’s not, the fucker.” John’s head dropped and then he finally turned to face Sherlock. Sherlock reached to tug John’s pyjama pants down, and John backed away from him. He only stopped when the back of his legs bumped into the toilet and he couldn’t escape any further.

“Please stop making such a fuss, John. I don’t mind doing this.”

“I do. I mind.”

“You’re being illogical. You’ve mopped up any number of bodily fluids yourself in the past, as a doctor. Blood, pus, urine, faeces. This is no different, except that you’re on the receiving end of the care.”

“Trust me, this is different.”

“How?”

“I wasn’t married to any of the others, for a start.”

Sherlock blinked. And frowned. He tilted his head on one side. “How does that make this… worse?”

John grimaced. “Kind of kills the romance, don’t you think?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose with sudden enlightenment. “ _Romance_ , John?” he asked, quite gently really. “Of course it’s not romantic. That’s utterly irrelevant.”

“Irrelevant…?”

“Romance isn’t _love_ , John. Romance is pure sentiment. What has it got to do with it? Surely this is what love is supposed to be.” Sherlock was warming to his theme now, gesturing at John’s wounds with equal parts exasperation and distress. “Not just sweet words and foot rubs and orgasms. Love is the blood and piss and pain of it too, surely? Love means love even for the awkward and embarrassing parts. You've cleaned up my wounds - blood and pus and vomit. Of course it's not romantic. But it's love, isn't it? This is what love is?”

Sherlock’s vehement tone faltered slightly at the end, but John’s… shame – yes it had been shame – had dissolved, leaving his husband chastened, and also looking at him intensely.

“Yes honeybee. It is. That is love.”

“Right. Then. I’ll help here and leave you for a moment. Call me when you need me again.”

John swallowed, nodded, and let Sherlock pull his pyjamas down this time.

Sherlock left the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He went to find the latex gloves, because John was a stickler for hygiene and this might make him feel slightly less awkward about it all. Because it was embarrassing, certainly it was, but also necessary.

And what did you do for the person that you loved if not the necessary things? You took a blow for them; you left them behind for an agonising year in order to protect them. You submitted to torture and did not break so that you could keep them safe. This part, tonight, was the smallest and easiest of necessary things.

*

When they were back in bed, everyone comfortable and clean and more or less over the residual awkwardness of the ablutions, John lay on his back, weary but still unsleeping.

“Swee’pea?”

“Yes, John?” Sherlock rolled onto his side and pressed his nose then his lips to John’s temple.

“Thanks. Sorry I’m such a prick sometimes.”

“You are… a fluffbundle.”

“’m really not.” His voice was starting to slur with exhaustion.

Sherlock snuggled closer and put his arm around John’s waist. He could feel the tension in him still. It was likely to be a bad night for dreams.

Perhaps he could try…?

_Yes. Couldn’t hurt. Might conceivably help._

Sherlock slipped his palm under John’s t-shirt and rested it on John’s stomach.

“Ssh, John. I’ve got you now. Try to sleep.”

“Can’ sl’p,” muttered John. Sleepily.

Sherlock began to circle his palm over the softness of John’s belly. The hairs of John’s stomach created a pleasant friction on his skin.

“Ssh,” he said again.

John sighed and started to relax. Exhaustion and the sense of safety combined and he began to drift into sleep.

Sherlock began to sing, softly.

 _Hold me close don’t let me go, oh no_  
I, yes I love you and I think that you know  
Do you know?

John sighed again, drowsing off at last.

 _With your love light shining,_  
Every cloud’s got a silver lining  
So hold me close don’t let me go.

With the next sigh, John seemed to settle into the pillow. The final tension seeped away from his shoulders, from his mouth and eyes. Sherlock interrupted the singing to kiss John’s cheek, then he resumed.

John made a little sound. Soft and sweet, accompanied by an expression on his poor face that was almost childlike in its untroubled bliss. The trust and vulnerability in it provoked a surge of tenderness that took Sherlock by surprise. It was almost painful, in its exquisite intensity. It was almost like he was falling in love all over again, all of a piece. With John, a new-found part of him: the boy who lived within the man.

 _This too_ , he thought, _is love._ _To be strong enough to not be strong all the time. To trust one other with the vulnerabilities of the body and the mind as well as the heart._  

He sang on, almost in a whisper, and gently rubbed circles on John’s stomach, and John made that contented little sound again.

 _With your love light shining clearly_  
It’s so good to have you near me  
So hold me close don’t let me go.

 _The things we do for the one we love beyond the necessary_ , Sherlock considered, _perhaps they are what count as romance._

If so, Sherlock Holmes was certainly not above a little sentiment. A little unnecessary romance.

**Author's Note:**

> The belly rub and the song (David Essex's Hold Me Close) are a reference from Unbelievable - it's something Johns mum used to do for him when he was a little boy and got sick or upset.


End file.
